Soldier extraordinaire
by babycham lover 003
Summary: A little ditty I wrote at 2AM about John the day he meets Sherlock. I haven't written like this in a while so tell me how I did.


Guns. Shouting. Men. Blood.

So much blood. Too much. Even for a shot wound this was too much. No. Steady, focus.

_Breathe_

You know what to do.

"John! Another one" says a voice gruff with weariness with having dragged another body back over his shoulder. I look around at my staff. The army of white coats. Made fun of by their peers all these years but here people revere us as gods. Life savers. A quiet contained chaos. Rows of uniformed medical staff with precise quick movements moving from man to man.

I nod.

"Bring him over here." The poor man looks terrified his eyes frantically searching around. Trying to look as reassuring as possible I quickly examine his legs. Well, what remains of them.

But as I lean in to check the damage the world swirls. I'm younger, I'm on the field, running in a frenzy covered in mud and blood. Caked in it. Underneath my nails and in my hair. It would take days to scrub it off, and it will. The chill of the air stings my nose and scrapes at my lungs. I charge forward with the rest of the men to confront the enemy. The world swirls again as I raise my gun. BANG.

I shoot up and back into reality. Creasing my face I feel tears stream down from eyes mixing with the sweat on my face. Frowning for allowing myself to become so vulnerable. I slowly relax back down into my hot mattress. I won't be sleeping tonight, but I don't most nights. Raising a shaking left hand to cover my eyes I lay like that for god knows how long until its morning.

In the morning I slump out of bed and hobble to take a shower. The whole room is the same colour. A shade like gone off milk. Reminds me of what a 1930s dormitory would look like in an old boarding school. I let the lukewarm water rush over my body, using the walls of the cubical to keep me upright. Single handily I shampoo my hair.

The man who single handily saved many lives on the battlefield now can't even wash shampoo out of his hair. Queen and country indeed.

Once I'm dressed I sit on my bed. After all these years of training and sacrifice, being shot this is my reward. I grab my phone and feeling closed in I leave the room.

Walking slowly and with difficulty down the stairwell and into the street I pass people. So many faces, who have no idea of what I've seen and done. I imagine the terror of sitting down next to someone on the tube; I've killed people, why should I be allowed to sit with the untainted? Of course it was all for a 'good cause' and 'those nasty buggers had it coming' but so did I. We all did.

Taking a turn to go into - Park I pass children playing cops and robbers. I wonder if they'd still be playing that if they knew what being shot really felt like and what if the robber wasn't so easy to catch.

The burning sensation of having a ball of metal rip the very fibres of your being into shreds and the dull thud you fell when it hits the bone. The shocked look on your face on the shooter. They can't believe they finally got a hit. But then they see your eyes. In that moment you're both changed. The training is no longer that.

You start to live and breathe movements that seemed to take too long to learn. Muscles spring into motion for the lucky ones as they dive down to dodge the oncoming barrage of bullets. It's too late for you though. The shooters eyes harden. This is your life now. You're the enemy. Any innocence is broken and smashed forever.

Slowly you look down. You almost want to giggle at the absurdity of it all. You getting shot? It doesn't happen to you. Others, yes of ourse. Wars always have their dead and wounded. You just didn't think _you'd_ be included in that. Warmth trickles down and reminds you it's all too real.

Common sense and some last shred of self preservation of your brain pushes you down. You get dragged back to the medical quarter.

Lost in my thoughts I didn't even hear a voice call after me.

"John!" Immediately I snap around. Someone needs me. I half believe a body will be ushered before me for examining. But no.

"I know, I got fat." My friend chuckles. That's the least of my worries 'friend'.


End file.
